Brotherly Boredom in a Basement
by CJcraziness
Summary: This had to be his own version of hell: boredom, unable to move, silence and the worst of all... stuck with his brother. Mycroft and Sherlock are abducted by terrorists and are stuck in a room together... Hell indeed.


**I had this idea in my head for a few days. Mycroft and Sherlock forced to be in a room together because they are abducted by terrorists. It's just short. This is just meant to funny... If its not so... I apologise. Either way, I giggled a little when typing it up. Reviews and what not are welcome, and I thank you if you read it or review. :) -I believe I amended the spelling mistake that was mentioned in the reviews but I may have changed the wrong word... I tried- **

* * *

"This _is_ your fault!" Sherlock snarled staring at his brother who, like himself, was tied to chair and placed next to a slimy, grey wall so they faced each other. This had to be his own version of hell: boredom, unable to move, silence and the worst of all... stuck with his brother.

"How can this be _my fault_?" Mycroft returned Sherlock's menacing stare back. His eyes skimmed the room looking at every aspect of the room that had become his so called cell. It was dreary and ever so dull. The air tasted and smelt unclean, it would take ages to get the smell off his new suit.

Sherlock wrestled with his restraints but it was no use. "Of course, this is your fault. They will be after you. I bet I'm only here because I was with you." Sherlock cursed himself for getting into Mycroft's usual black car of doom as he wanted to very much get back at Baker street, winding up John with new bullet holes in the wall or making screeches with his violin. He wondered if John actually knew he was missing.

"Yes yes, dear Brother. Do go on with your _bets and guesses. _How that will help us here." Mycroft was annoyed, he had been taken captive... The great Mycroft Holmes... Captured! This was not going to go down well with the office. People may start to believe he was a liability if he was so easily taken into custody by an unknown force. He scowled at himself, his foolishness. Not to mention that he was with his brother, this will be used against him over the years to come.

Sherlock rocked in his chair, trying to knock himself over. Before Mycroft could say it would be unwise, Sherlock's chair fell to the side and he whacked his head on the floor... the fool. "Ow. I'm fine. Ow..." Sherlock muttered. Mycroft regarded his younger brother... he was an idiot, a child. "Now then. Did that help your situation whatsoever?" He sniggered.

Sherlock frowned at the grimy ground, since that was mostly what he see from the floor. "It may have. I'm not sure I landed how I wanted to though." Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft looked at the single light bulb that hung lonely from the ceiling, it flickered and he strained to hear footsteps from above them, he had deduced that they were below the ground. The grimy walls and mould creeping up the corner had said it all. They were likely to be in a basement.

"I'm bored. Bored. Bored. _Bored!_" Sherlock started to howl. He tried to roll around and then tried to thrash about, neither of these attempts worked obviously. "I'm bored...!"

"_That's enough._ If you are so bored. Why don't you deduce where we are?" If Sherlock said he was bored one more time Mycroft would have broken free just to gag his annoying little brother. This had to be his own perception of hell: Humiliation and his brother being his usual irritating self. However, if he gave Sherlock a puzzle to ponder it would help the both of them. He watched Sherlock's dark eyes scan over every detail of the dull room, his gaze inspected every speck in the room before returning his gaze back to Mycroft. He rolled his eyed as if to say_ it was beyond easy_, which Mycroft knew it was.

"We are underground. A basement. Very old basement. In likely a terrace. Not many terrace's have basements though. That's a good start. Obviously still in London somewhere. Somewhere with housing at least over seventy years of age. We wasn't drugged that long as well. There is at least four people either upstairs or outside the door." Sherlock stopped and listened as another pair of heavy footsteps above them. "No, five people. From the voices I have heard, they are not English or not native anyway. Accents... Did you hear them?"

Mycroft blinked and bite back a smile, his brother could be useful and observe a lot when he wanted to. "I heard a Czech accent. I believe a German as well."

"You only heard two accents? _Pay attention Mycroft._" Sherlock mocked, it was a sentence that Mycroft had repeated so many times to Sherlock over the years. "There were two men with German accents. One with Czech. The other two I did not hear." Well, they were getting somewhere. "So, when are your men getting here? It's obvious they would be looking for you."

"Obviously." Mycroft stressed. Although he was unsure, he couldn't see his watch and was not sure how long they were drugged for but either way his men would be searching and hopefully find them soon. If not Mycroft would be on the war path when he got out of this situation. His wrists were starting to itch and he was very irritated. Sherlock could see his brother's silent but deadly frustration.

"So... How have you been?" Sherlock half-heartedly queried hoping it would distract Mycroft from his frustration. Sherlock knew a aggravated Mycroft was a lethal one. He remembered seeing Mycroft when Sherlock was a child. Mycroft was home from University for Christmas, not that he ever liked it, he was infuriated that he hadn't got 100% in one of his examinations. So angry in fact that he tried to sue the University for showing bias and well as trying to organise a protest with other students who somehow hadn't got 100% when they should have. The fact was he was only 3% off full marks but that didn't stop him from almost burning the Christmas tree down as well. Sherlock really didn't want to see him this infuriated it had been many years since he'd seen that look on Mycroft's face. The last time being when Sherlock had been high but he couldn't remember what he had done exactly.

Mycroft's eyes looked over Sherlock still on the floor and regarded him suspiciously. _What was Sherlock up to?_ He thought. "I'm fine. _Why?_" He spat, just starting to lose his cool demeanour. He instantly regretted it, he was showing he was in distress... in front of his brother. Not clever at all. "I'm absolutely fine, Brother dear. What about yourself?" Mycroft closed his eyes and calmed himself.

"_Other than a pounding in my head_, I'm perfectly well myself. It's a bit cold on the floor though." Mycroft heard the sulk in Sherlock's voice and chuckled silently.

There was a scratching sound at the door and both men directed their gazes towards the door. Both brothers blinked simultaneously and a sudden coldness filled their dark, inhuman eyes.

A man opened the door, in seconds both brothers had deduced everything they could about the man. Russian, six feet, muscular, worked out regularly, also post army or air force training, military hair cut, recent fighting, deep cut over his left eye and cheek, lonely, very cold blue eyes which had seen a lot of death, clearly single and no family, more deductions formed before the eyes of Mycroft and Sherlock all of varying relevance. The man looked at Sherlock on the floor before kicking him hard in the stomach, Sherlock gasped. He was then sat back up with his chair back against the wall. He checked Sherlock's restraints. Satisfied he slapped Sherlock across the face and left the room without a word.

"Well, that was anticlimactic." Sherlock said, his voice a little hoarse.

"What were you expecting exactly?"

"Something to happen."

"Well_ something_ did happen. You were slapped in the face and kicked in the stomach. I couldn't do anything to help so don't give me that face." Sherlock was sulking... _again._ "Terrorist. Russian terrorist." Mycroft said simply.

"He's a terrorist?" Sherlock questioned. "I would have said gangster."

"We are being held by a part of Russian terrorist cell. I have seen that man before. In a file. I have been trying to sort this problem for a while. I thought I nearly had it under control." Mycroft grimaced to himself.

"Evidently not. Not so clever now." Sherlock smirked.

"We had someone undercover. He went missing two weeks ago, gone rogue or dead. Hopefully the latter. Though it might explain why we are here. Rogue agents are all I need at the moment..."

"Hopefully the latter? You are so loving, Brother mine." Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Sentiment is useless, Brother mine." Mycroft muttered.

"Of course..." An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

"Well, that's that." Mycroft announced for no particular reason. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Mycroft pulled his hands from behind his back and rubbed his wrists. He untied his bindings on his ankles then stood up straight and stretched. "Tut tut tut. Not prepared at all, are we now?" He revealed a very small blade and waved it in Sherlock's face before crouching down to loosen his bindings. Sherlock freed himself and reluctantly thanked his brother.

"What is the plan of action then?"

"We could wait or we could run. It depends if we can open the door without suspicion." Mycroft tried the door, it did not budge. He produced another sharp, thin piece of metal and passed it to Sherlock. "Let's see how long it takes for you to pick the lock. I give you two minutes."

Sherlock attempted to pick the lock but he knew it would take him longer than two minutes, he hadn't needed to pick a lock in a long while and he had to admit he was a little rusty. After two minutes precisely timed by Mycroft he still had not opened the door. Mycroft stood impatiently his hand out waiting. It did in fact only take Mycroft two minutes to pick the lock. When he finished he stood and looked at Sherlock with a smug grin that simply said _I could do it why couldn't you?_

"You are a rubbish big brother." Sherlock suddenly declared.

"I know. But I could say the same about yourself."

Mycroft slowly opened the door. He handed Sherlock the small blade he used for the lock. Out of nowhere, the Russian terrorist was back. He noticed Mycroft and charged towards him. Mycroft stepped out of the way, missing being tackled by centimetres. Sherlock leaped out of the room swinging a fist towards the Russians throat. The Russian ducked and pushed Sherlock back with such force he crashed into the wall. He slipped to the floor. The Russian advanced towards Mycroft, he reached for his throat. Mycroft backed into the wall and the Russian grabbed his throat, he was lifted into the air like he weighed nothing at all. This only lasted seconds as the Russian crumpled to the floor with a knife protruding from his chest. Mycroft brushed the dust off his suit as if nothing had happened.

"_It's the cake, Mycroft._ The cake is what is slowing you down. The guy wouldn't have got your neck otherwise." Sherlock stood up and brushed himself down as well.

"As I've said before... I'm on a diet and I don't do legwork. I normally avoid these situations."

"Of course. Sitting behind a desk eating cake and running Britain is what you do all day."

"Oh shut up Sherlock."

There was a loud gunshot heard from above, then three more and shouting in German and English. "It looks like they have _finally arrived_." Mycroft muttered. "Took far too long. Someone is losing their job today."

"Well. At least this ridiculousness is over." Sherlock smirked.

"Well, none of this bickering happened. Am I right, Sherlock?"

"Oh Mycroft. When on Earth do we bicker?" Sherlock spoke sarcastically.

"When indeed." Mycroft sniggered as they heard agents running down the stairs.


End file.
